Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
by Genevieve-Jones23
Summary: How much impact can one person truly have on a legend? Is fate a written path or can it be rewritten? Join the forgotten Potter and find out.


**A disclaimer**: I own nothing but Elizabeth and her story, the rests is all down to the genius of Jo Rowling. Enjoy – Genevieve Freya Jones x

Chapter 1

The Girl Who Lived

The night was deathly quiet. No people talking, no wind blowing, even the birds had ceased their chirruping. The sky was a wash of purples and blues, as though full of bruises and the rain fell like silent tears as if the heavens themselves had been wounded by the night's events.

From the silence a man appeared in front of the ruin that was once a beautiful family cottage; now the aftermath of a massacre, the like of which would unsettle even the strongest of minds; thaw even the coldest of hearts.

The man had appeared so suddenly and silently that you would have thought he had just popped out of the ground. This man had been seen many times in the small village of Godric's Hollow. He was tall and thin and very old judging by the silver of his hair and beard which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His light, bright eyes were shimmering behind the half-moon spectacles that were almost as famous as the man on whose, slightly crooked, nose they had found a perch. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Everything from Albus' name to his boots would have been warmly welcomed by most of the inhabitants of Godric's Hollow. Staring up at the cottage he was unsure, given the state it was in, whether it could still be referred to as such. The only thing Albus' mind could come up with to truly describe the horrors, which now affronted is eyes, was the remnants of a battlefield. Evil seemed to exude from every crevice; death in every shadow; sadness in every raindrop, each of which seemed to miss Dumbledore no matter how heavy they fell, as if the man were holding an invisible umbrella, making it clear that the droplet of water making tracks down his pale cheek, to vanish into the tangles of that silver beard, had nothing to do with the weather.

But Dumbledore was not here to mourn, that could be left for another time; he was here to do a job, and it was that thought that gave the old man the strength to push open the creaking garden gate and follow the gravel path to a door which was now hanging precariously from a single hinge.

She had to be there. Hagrid had been certain that the only living thing that had been left in the house earlier that evening was young Harry… Dumbledore paused. The thought of that poor little boy and everything that lay before him pulled at the old man's heartstrings as if someone was playing him like a violin; slow, sad and melancholy. But Harry was not his priority right now; he had delegated that worry earlier that evening and would have to leave it be. Harry would be safe.

It was only as he entered the hallway that the gravity of what had happened there that evening became clear and it made Dumbledore sick to think of it, for this was no more bricks and mortar, pictures of smiling face that had once smiled back at him were burnt and charred. Scraps of Christmas wrapping paper littered the floor; Christmas was a whole two months away; Lily always was one for being prepared. The splinters of a toy broomstick lay scattered on the floor, a birthday present. All echoes of lives destroyed in nothing more than a flash of light and a word. Words; the most powerful weapon we possess, at least, that was the old man's opinion.

As he surveyed the madness around him it suddenly struck Albus that something seemed out of place. The entire hallway held evidence of a tragedy, except one door. One single white door; it stood out against the darkness and desolation almost blindingly, and it was clear to Dumbledore that this was not a natural phenomenon. No, this door had been protected by powerful magic and Albus at last understood why Hagrid had been unable to find her.

As he approached that lonely, white door, which led to the cupboard-under-the-stairs, he began to hear a soft whimpering coming from within. The ghost of a smile made its way onto the his thin lips. She was safe. On opening the door he was greeted with a pair of big hazel eyes staring back up at him, tears threatening to spill even though she looked as though she had already cried more than any child ever should. She could have been only one and staring up at him with eyes that said one thing, "I'm scared."

The old man would have considered her a fool had she not been, with a gentle reassuring smile; and the usual twinkle slowly returning to his blue eyes, he picked up the child in her small bundle of blankets and with one last look at the horrors that surrounded him, sighing, he turned on his heel and with a pop he was gone.

He appeared only moments later outside a house which looked as though, at one point, it had been a large stone pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked it could only have been held up by magic. Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read 'The Burrow'.

Albus looked down into the bundle of blankets and barely visible beneath a tuft of jet black hair was the baby girl, fast asleep. Dumbledore couldn't help but chuckle, most people vomited the first time they apparated, only James' daughter would choose it as a pleasant moment to get some sleep.

Dumbledore held the girl tighter in his arms and headed towards The Burrow. He laid the bundle gently on the doorstep, took a letter from his robes and tucked it in the blankets and then slowly made his way back to the spot where he had been standing, with the small girl in his arms, not moments ago.

"Good Luck, Elizabeth Potter – until we meet again," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak he was gone.

A breeze blew the ruffled hedges outside the burrow, under the inky sky with its twinkling stars looking down upon the small child which lay on the doorstep of the burrow, one tiny hand clamped around the letter beside her as she slept on. Not knowing she would be woken in a few hours by Mrs. Weasley's shocked scream, as she went to fetch the eggs from the chicken coop for breakfast. Not knowing that she would spend the next few weeks being oohed and aahed over by three of her six now adoptive brothers, whilst being poked by the youngest, of whom was only older than her by months. She couldn't know that, in that moment, all over the country people were raising their glasses in salute to her brother; saying in hushed voices, "To Harry Potter – The Boy Who Lived."

She was the forgotten Potter; but for now that was how it had to be.

Until, she was ready.


End file.
